"No," she admitted. "But the fact that you could say such a thing was a measure of your fury." She unconsciously placed a hand on her belly, where there was a faint glow of extra energy. "I would have informed you when the child was born. That would have been soon enough. Why the devil did you follow me, Duncan? Isn't this difficult enough already?"

"As I said, there is unfinished business between us, Gwyneth Owens." His eyes were the color of pale winter ice. "Have you reached any conclusions about why a Stuart victory would be so devastating that you chose to betray your own husband? Or could it be that there were no reasons, and you were merely arrogant in your ignorance?"

"No," she said, aching. "I feel with every particle of my being that I am right, but I have never been able to get beyond a wall of fear and pain that blocks me from seeing more."

"There is a way that might give you the answer."

Not liking his expression, she asked, "What?"

"If we mate with our shields down, we might be able to reach a deeper level of knowledge. If the bond still exists between us-if we can trust each other, even if only for an hour-we might find a deeper understanding than either of us can reach alone."

"No!" She backed up until she ran into the wall of the bothy. "Dear heaven, Duncan, haven't we hurt each other enough?"

He stepped around the fire and halted within arm's length of her. "You hate my touch that much?"

"I have never hated your touch, blast you! But I fear what intimacy with you will do to my heart."

"And here I've wondered if you even have a heart within that wickedly provocative body." He cupped her cheek with surprising gentleness. "Don't you want to know the reason why you destroyed our marriage? I'm curious. More than curious."

She began to weep silently, wishing that he had stayed away, wishing that he had come to forgive her and take her home to Dunrath. Anything but this cool, exquisitely painful dissection of what had separated them.

His lips brushed the tears on her cheeks. "A truce, Gwyneth Owens. And perhaps from that . . . who knows?" His mouth came down on hers, light and controlled.

All the reasons why she should keep her distance vanished as longing blazed through her. She wanted his hard, pa.s.sionate body, his wry humor, his tenderness, the strength that could be both courage and stubbornness. Most of all, she wanted the heart-deep closeness that had once bound them, even if it was only for a handful of moments.

"Ah, G.o.d, Gwynne . . . ," he breathed as she kissed him with fierce urgency. Their arms locked around each other as if pa.s.sion was their last hope of heaven. In a tangle of limbs, they stumbled into the bothy and sprawled onto her blankets, tearing at the garments that separated them.

She writhed against him, desperate to come together one last time, while bitterly aware that if he wanted to punish her, he had found the perfect way. How could she bear to never know his touch again? He was a drug in her blood, a need great as water and air.

They had mated with every shade of tenderness and scarlet pa.s.sion, but nothing had ever matched the blaze of power that scalded through them when he entered her. She cried out as his spirit penetrated hers as stunningly as his body.

In the white heat of desire, she barely remembered that he said they must come together with shields down if they were to find a deeper truth. The thought terrified her, but she owed him this. Layer by layer, in instants that seemed like hours, she stripped away the barriers that had protected her secrets, her fears, her deep ambivalence about her marriage.

The process took so much of her splintered concentration that only when she was finished did she realize that his formidable defenses were also gone, and lowering them had been as hard for him as for her. Their naked, vulnerable spirits flowed together, and in that ultimate intimacy she gained visceral understanding of how profoundly her betrayal had wounded him. He had always dared more than she. He had risked love while she had hung back, accepting his love but afraid to admit to her own because of the hazards that surrounded him. He had given her all a man could give a woman-and she had used it against him.

Whether her reasons were good was irrelevant. She had committed a crime against love, and only love might heal the damage she had inflicted. She poured herself into him-her love, her admiration, her apologies and deep, deep regrets. Forgive me, beloved, forgive me.

"Ah, Gwynne, my heart . . . ," he whispered. Though he had known he must expose himself as thoroughly as she to find the answers he sought, he had foolishly not antic.i.p.ated what that meant. In this place of no barriers, only essence, his anger crumbled in the fountain of her anguished, sorrowing love.

It was he who must apologize for putting her in an impossible position. Though he had loved her as much for the pure strength of her spirit as for her stunning sensuality, he hadn't wanted to accept the consequences of her integrity. "I'm sorry, mo caran," he said, barely able to say the words before pa.s.sion swamped his mind. "I was wrong. . . ."

Lightning crashed through the sky as they culminated together, and in that searing flash of earthly and magical energy, the shape and form of Gwynne's nightmares became shockingly clear. He almost blacked out from the combined intensity of pa.s.sion, fulfillment, and the horror of the future that he might have created with his headstrong acts. He looked into the abyss, and found himself.

As aftershocks tingled through him, he rolled to his side and crushed her close, needing the sweet solace of her body to anchor him. She was shaking, yet strong in ways no mere male could ever match. " You . . . you saw that?" he asked raggedly.

"G.o.d help me, I did." She drew a shuddering breath. "A Jacobite victory would have been followed within five years by the new king's attempt to convert the nation to Catholicism, by the sword if necessary. It would have become the worst religious war in Britain's history-worse than b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's burnings or the rampages of the Puritans."

He nodded as her words crystallized his understanding. "When the people resisted, King James would have invited French and Spanish and Irish troops into Britain to force conversions. The attempt to return Britain to the Roman Church would have failed, but the price would have been monstrous. Beyond belief."

Her eyes squeezed shut as if that would stop the images. "When I dreamed of rivers of blood, it wasn't a metaphor, but a prediction. Merciful heaven, Duncan, did you see what would have happened in London . . . ?"

"Hush, my love." He stroked her silky hair, awed by the power and compa.s.sion beneath those shining red gold tresses. "I saw it all." And those images would appear in his nightmares until the day he died. "Those horrors would have come true if not for you, Gwyneth Owens. You are a heroine."

"If I am a heroine, I am also a fool." She stared at him with dazed eyes. "I should have realized what the ultimate danger would be. The potential for religious conflict was always present. I am a scholar, I know history. Yet I couldn't see it. If I had realized sooner-"

He laid a finger over her lips to stop her self-recriminations. "None of us saw it. Not me nor you nor Simon nor the council. The religious wars of the past left deep scars on our nations' souls, mo cridhe. I think we all wanted to believe we had risen above religious violence. Who would believe that a modern ruler would invite such atrocities in G.o.d's name?"

Her mouth curved wryly. "We Guardians think we are wise. We try to learn from the past and make judgments with clear, objective minds. We're not very successful, are we?"

"We are only human, my love. Our greater powers give us the opportunity to make greater mistakes, as I did." His mouth twisted. "I used my power to urge Charles Edward toward the throne of Scotland. Now that I see the greater picture, I realize that if I hadn't interfered, the rising might have ended sooner and with fewer lives lost. There is no way I can ever redeem such misjudgment."

"As you said, we are all too human. If you wish to redeem your mistakes, work to rebuild Scotland, for she will need you desperately in the years ahead." Gwynne's eyes became unfocused. "The remnants of rebellion will be crushed with great and terrible violence, yet from that will flower a true partnership between Scotland and England. In the future, Scots and Englishmen will marry, study, and fight side by side as equals. Together they will build an empire that spans the world."

Her words rang with truth, and he found comfort in them. Silently he pledged himself to do all in his power to bring about that bright vision. "Besides working to heal a wounded nation, we must raise our children the best we know how, and hope they are a little wiser than we." He laid her hand on the gentle curve of her belly. It was far too soon for any change to be visible, but the glow of a new soul offered hope for a better future. "I love you, Gwyneth Owens. Will you come home with me?"

Her eyes crinkled with laughter. "You know the answer to that since our souls have been even more closely twined than our bodies."

"I . . . I need to hear the words." He felt like a fool admitting that, but it was true.

"I love you, Duncan Macrae." She raised her face and kissed him with lingering sweetness. "I will stay with you forever, raise our children, tend to your castle-and disagree with you whenever you're a stubborn, lovable fool."

"Spoken like a true Guardian female. Independent, unmanageable, and utterly irresistible." He laughed and rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. "I love you, dearest wife. I will even try to love that evil cat of yours."

"No need to go that far." She bent into another kiss that stole his breath and heart away. "Take me home, Duncan. Take me home now."

EPILOGUE.

September 1746.

G wynne tapped on the door of the best guest room. "Lady Bethany, are you awake?"

The lady herself opened the door, her silvery hair echoing the delicate embroidery on her gown. "Of course I am, and eager to attend this Friday night gathering of yours."

"You're not too tired from your journey? You only just got here two hours ago."

"I'm not made of gla.s.s, child. Yes, it was a long ride north, but the carriage was comfortable and we were in no rush." She patted Gwynne's expanding midriff. "You're the one who needs to be pampered, but I won't fuss over you if you won't fuss over me."

"Very well." Gwynne hugged her sister-in-law. "I'm so glad you're here!"

"The feeling is mutual. It's been a difficult year for all Britain. But now that the country is settling down, I wanted to see you. That was no easy task you took on." The older woman searched Gwynne's face. "You're truly happy?"

"Oh, yes," Gwynne said quietly. Taking Lady Bethany's arm, she set a course for the stairway. "I could not have imagined how much I love Scotland. This was always my true home. I just didn't know until I arrived here."

"And your husband?"

Gwynne found herself blushing. She'd heard that some men found women who were increasing to be unattractive. Duncan was not of that number. "I owe the council a grand thank you for encouraging me to do something I was too afraid to do on my own."

Lady Bethany smiled. "I'm so glad. I felt that things would probably turn out well for you, but it was by no means guaranteed."

Side by side, they started down the steps. Now that she was less nimble, Gwynne appreciated the railings Duncan had installed on the stairs. When they reached the entrance to the great hall, both paused. Already dozens of Macraes were circulating, chatting and drinking as they waited for the dinner to begin.

For an instant Gwynne tried to see the gathering as Lady Bethany did. None of the guests were fashionably dressed, and many had the ruddy complexions of those who spent much of their time outdoors. In her panniers and stomacher and dainty slippers, Lady Bethany was from another world.

Gwynne shouldn't have worried. The older woman gave a happy sigh. "I see what you mean, Gwynne. Dunrath radiates warmth and goodwill. I may never leave."

"Nothing could make me happier!"

"I think my own children would have a thing or two to say about that, and I would miss them, too. But I'll certainly be here until after that fine strapping son of yours is born." Bethany's glance touched Jean. "Your other sister-in-law breaks my heart. Even that lovely smile can't hide her sorrow."

Gwynne silently agreed. Once Jean was told of the horrors that might have resulted from Duncan's intervention in the rebellion, she had accepted Gwynne's actions. But the bright-eyed girl of a year ago was gone forever. "She improves, slowly."

Lady Bethany narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "When she is ready, send her to me in London. There might be a touch of fate in her future as well."

If so, Gwynne hoped it was a simpler fate than her own had been. Not that she could complain about the results. "There's Duncan, and look, Simon is with him!"

The two men moved across the room toward Gwynne and Lady Bethany, their progress slowed by greetings and introductions. Duncan's dark hair was escaping its queue and he was dressed in casual contrast to Simon, who looked like a royal courtier even when he was wearing one of his simplest costumes.

The men had worked closely together to quietly mitigate some of the effects of the government's crushing treatment of the conquered Highlands. They had misdirected troops from small hidden glens, supplied food and livestock to crofters whose homes were burned, and helped rebels and their families escape to the American colonies.

Reaching the women, Duncan draped a warm arm around his wife's shoulders. On his hand the sapphire of Adam Macrae's ring sparkled in the candlelight. "Are you well, mo cridhe?"

"I am now." Never better than when her husband was with her.

"Lady Beth!" Simon bent over her hand. "This is an unexpected surprise."

Bethany laughed. "Nonsense. Nothing surprises you, Falconer."

Gwynne wondered if Simon realized the extent of Duncan's actions. She suspected he did, and that he was grateful he'd never been required to take official action. Now the men were again on the same side, doing their best to preserve and protect. She stretched out her hand to him. "It's good to see you again, Simon."

His tired eyes lit up. "You glow, my lady."

She patted her belly. "You know why. Your G.o.dson is full of energy."

"Duncan is a fortunate man." Simon's tone held a hint of wistfulness.

"I know it well!" Duncan's arm tightened around Gwynne. Glancing into her eyes, he said, "It's time to begin, my love."

Gwynne nodded and they separated. As she lit a taper, her husband struck the Chinese gong, the deep, musical tone filling the hall. People ambled to the tables to find seats. Smiling, Jean guided Lady Bethany to the chair at Gwynne's right hand. Gwynne was pleased that the two women had struck up an immediate friendship.

The minor irritations of daily life fell away as she lit the candles in the ma.s.sive silver candelabra. Peace spread through the hall as the familiar ritual began. Candles lit, Gwynne took her place at the head of the table and made the beckoning gesture of welcome. "Welcome, family and friends."

Another gesture. "Welcome to any visitors who may be joining us tonight." Her gaze went to Lady Bethany, who looked completely at home despite her brocade. Even Simon, usually taut as a polished blade, began to relax.

Gwynne gestured for the third time. "Now let us offer thanks for the blessings of family, food, and friends."

Before covering her eyes with her hands, she looked down the table to her husband. As their gazes met, Duncan gave her the smile that was only for her and reached out to touch her mind. I love you.

Warmth flowed through every particle of her being. I love you, too, mo cridhe. How had she been so lucky as to find a true mate of body, mind, and soul?

Not luck. Fate.

Author's note.

Though my Guardians are fictional, the background they move against is real. The New Spring Gardens where Gwynne and Duncan meet is better known as Vauxhall, the name it acquired in 1785. Frederick, Prince of Wales, the heir to George II, really was called "the Nauseous Beast" by his family; the king tried unsuccessfully to remove him from the succession. There was general relief when Frederick died in 1751. His son became George III, a simple man who reigned for decades and generally restored respect to the throne because of his high moral standards.

The Jacobite rebellion of 1745 is well known and often romanticized. A far more charismatic leader than his father, James, Prince Charles Edward Stuart-"Bonnie Prince Charlie"-came closer to succeeding than any of the earlier risings. It's certainly possible to imagine different circ.u.mstances that would have led to success. It's equally possible to imagine a scenario that could have led to disaster.

A Scottish friend of mine says that the Battle of Culloden carries a haunting sorrow for Scots. The sadness is not primarily because of the b.l.o.o.d.y battle itself-Scotland had known many b.l.o.o.d.y battles. But the harrowing of the Highlands that followed destroyed an ancient way of life. This is why I kept my story clear of the battles-romance is about hope and healing, not irrevocable tragedy.

Like all writers, I'm intrigued by "What if?" questions, and my Guardian stories allow plenty of room to speculate about possibilities. The first Guardian story was "The Alchemical Marriage" in the Irresistible Forces anthology. More stories are on the way! After all, love and magic go together. . . .

BOOKS BY MARY JO PUTNEY.

THEBRIDETRILOGY.

The Wild Child *

The China Bride *

The Bartered Bride *

FALLEN ANGEL SERIES.

Thunder and Roses Petals in the Storm Dancing on the Wind Angel Rogue Shattered Rainbows River of Fire One Perfect Rose *

SILKTRILOGY.

Silk and Shadows Silk and Secrets Veils of Silk